


History Makers

by Pangea



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is a Big Dorkface, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluff, Ice Skating, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Art, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nerdiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: Based ongarnetquyen's art prompt:While Charles is lovingly nicknamed The Ice Prince, Erik is called The Ice King for rarely showing his emotions outside of the rink. For as long as Erik remembers, Charles has always been known as the prodigy, coached by both of his parents, who were also a famous pair of figure skating athletes. But when a tragedy happened that killed Brian Xavier, Charles is left being trained by his mother, his performance keeps going worse and finally disappears from the ice rink. Erik can’t help going longer without seeing Charles skate again, he decides to retire early and help Charles regaining his confidence in both life and love.AYuri!!! on IceAU!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GQD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GQD/gifts).



> For **garnetquyen** , who has been so patient with me for this and who has also painted my whole world. <3 Happy birthday, my dear friend!!
> 
> With thanks as always to **ikeracity** for lively commentary and beta services!

 

The flashes of camera lights are bright and blinding, obscuring the crowd and making spots dance across Erik’s vision as he clutches his bouquet of flowers tight and his silver medal even tighter. The loudspeakers overhead are blaring music but he can’t make it out over the cheers of the crowd, their waving flags and shaking banners swirling into one huge blur.

Erik’s stomach is filled with a strange flurry of mixed emotions, all his nerves run out now that the competition is over, oddly light for finally knowing the outcome yet disappointed, in a way, to not have come in first place. Charles Xavier has taken the title, standing—for once—a full head above Erik at the top of the pedestal and beaming at the cameras with his arms full of flowers and his gold medal glinting brightly over the ice.

It’s true Erik wanted first place, so badly he could almost taste it, but if anyone deserved it more it was Charles, who skated his whole heart and soul out in front of today’s crowds to place above Erik by a whopping 20 points. Were it anyone else, Erik would be furious, but he’d watched Charles’ routine—he’d known Charles would win by the end of the first minute, and it hadn’t taken much to admit even to himself Charles is worthy of the title.

Erik’s never spoken directly to Charles, even though they’ve skated against each other in several competitions now. What he does know about his rival—because if anyone is worthy of _that_ title, it’s Charles, too—is through watching competition vids and interviews on YouTube or reading articles of Charles’ interviews during the long flights between home and skating events. Even though they’re both still only in the junior division, the media already seems to be playing them off against each other: Charles is the Ice Prince, charming and fair and loved by all, while Erik has earned himself the moniker of Ice King—cold and remote when he doesn’t have his skates on, saving all of his emotion for the ice.

Even now Erik stands rigidly, back straight and shoulders taut, while Charles waves and bounces, pivoting just a little every few moments to give everyone a chance at a good angle. From anyone else in the sport it would be an obnoxious parade of haughty showmanship, but Erik knows just from the interviews he's poured over Charles is being nothing but sincere about granting everyone a fair chance. At one point Charles nearly drops his flowers, which put together dwarf him with how large the two bouquets are, and Erik nearly has to bite back a grin.

Solo figure skating is a lonely sport. Erik never had much time for friends back home outside of his practice and training, and he's honestly spent more time with his coach than any of the kids in his class at school. He has no teammates, and there's no one else from his tiny hometown attempting a career in figure skating, so he doesn't even have another boy or girl his age who also spends all their free time at the ice rink. But even though he's never spoken more than three words to Charles, Charles still feels like a friend.

 

 

It's stupid, and Erik hoists his own flowers higher under the guise of smelling them to hide his sudden flush, cheeks running hot even in the icy air of the rink. If Charles knew how much Erik follows his interviews, he'd probably think Erik is a creepy stalker. Just the thought is _embarrassing._

Erik's been staring at him too long, because Charles turns suddenly and catches his eye, and Erik finds himself on the receiving end of one of Charles' trademark blinding grins. "This is so exciting! I watched your program and you skated so beautifully. I hope there are no hard feelings and we can skate against each other again!"

For a moment Erik's tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth. "No," he gets out at last, "I hope so too."

"Excellent!" Charles' accent is endearingly posh. "I'll be sure to stay on the top of my game, then."

"You'd better," Erik tells him, emboldened, "or otherwise I'll be stealing the gold from you."

Charles blinks, and Erik has a split second of deep self-conscious embarrassment that he's somehow gone too far, but then Charles' grin turns outright wicked. "You can try," he says, lofty and haughty but his eyes spark with warm amusement, "but don't get your hopes up."

Erik grins back at him, and the camera flashes start going off like rapid fireworks now, faster than ever, as everyone takes a thousand shots of the Ice Prince and Ice King grinning at each other in friendly rivalry. "You're on."

 

*

 

Erik throws himself into his training, practicing harder and longer than ever before in the off season. Since he lives in Germany with his parents while Charles is from the United States, he doesn't see Charles at all during the long months of no competitions, but the competitive fire in him has been lit: he trains not just to beat Charles for the sake of winning the title, but for the right to stand beside Charles, his rival and friend, on the ice and deserve his spot on the podium beside him.

And then, tragedy strikes—it's late May when the news breaks that Charles' father, a former skating champion, has abruptly committed suicide. Erik is at the breakfast table when he gets the notification on his phone from Google Alerts and as he reads the article he feels his heart drop out of his chest. He can only wonder helplessly what Charles must be feeling right now. Charles' father was Charles' primary coach, along with his mother who also used to be ranked nationally in women's solo skating. Their whole world must be shattered.

"What have I told you about bringing your phone to the table, Erik?" Erik's mother says, drawing him up out of thought.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Erik says helplessly, "I just—it's—"

Edie must see something in Erik's expression because her own face softens as she gently pries the phone out of his hand. She skims through the open article and sighs sadly. "I'm so sorry to hear this news," she says, squeezing Erik's shoulder. "That's terrible. You should send your friend a note. I'm sure he could use a kind word right now."

"No," Erik says quickly, shaking his head as he takes his phone back. "We don't even know each other that well. It would be weird." Not to mention he's not even sure what he could possibly _say._

"Alright," Edie says, leveling him with one of her knowing looks, no doubt thinking of the wall of posters in Erik's room she's lovingly dubbed The Charles Shrine. "You'd better hurry up and finish your breakfast so you're not late for school. And text me before you start practice this afternoon, no excuses!"

"Yes, Mama," Erik says, hurrying to obey, and silently resolving to train harder than ever today in quiet tribute to Charles and his father. It's the least he can do.

Eventually the hubbub of the press around the Xavier family dies down, and Erik doesn't hear anything about Charles for the rest of the off season. Erik's coach is pleased with the growth he's done in the past year, and Erik's short program has never looked better. Together they've coordinated a perfect free skate program too that shows off Erik's stamina and dexterity, and more than once Erik's caught himself imagining what he'll say to Charles once they're standing up on the podium together, him with the gold medal this time and Charles with the silver.

The season kicks off with the qualifying regional skating competitions in September, and even though Erik is ranked this year and doesn't need to compete in too many of them in order to be considered for the championship, it feels good to get back into the rink with other warm bodies to compete against. He skates through his programs with ease, earning the acclaim he's been hungry for all off-season and generating an early buzz—will the Ice King dethrone the Ice Prince as number one this year?

Charles, however, is a different story. They don't skate against each other in the smaller competitions, but Erik watches all of the vids from other events he can get his hands on. Charles' form is shaky, and he bungles jumps he's never had problems with landing before. His smiles are still wide and bright, but Erik's spent too long studying him not to notice how blindingly fake they are, painted on and fast to slip away once the interview is over and the cameras are already beginning to rotate away.

Charles loses a competition, coming in a surprising third place. Then he loses another, placing fourth. Then he loses again, and again, dropping further and further in the rankings until come October and the Grand Prix events, he's only barely qualified for the first round. It's such a fast decline no one is sure what to think, since Charles and his mother have begun refusing interviews and ignoring reporters' questions, and the rumor mill is in full swing, each new tabloid story more outlandish than the last.

Erik finally sees Charles in person again at the Cup of China, and Erik almost wishes he didn't. It's where Charles finally falls apart at last, missing nearly all of his jumps and falling so many times Erik half-expects to see the ice pink with blood by the end of Charles' program. When it's over Charles skates off the ice like a zombie and walks straight out of the rink, and Erik doesn't even get a chance to consider going after him because he's up next to skate and they’re already starting to announce his name.

It's the last time Erik, and the rest of the skating world, see the once-promising rising star Charles Xavier for ten years.

 

*

 

New York is still bitterly cold in March, and Erik tucks his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as he walks up the long driveway. He's feeling a little jetlagged still, but the sun is bright and his nerves are already buzzing so he can feel the last traces of sleepiness burning away as he approaches the huge front doors of the intimidatingly huge mansion sprawled out across a perfectly manicured lawn. He's not quite sure what he expected whenever he'd imagined the house Charles Xavier grew up in, but he's double-checked the address at least five times now and this is unmistakably the right place.

Erik's gone over what he plans to say close to ten thousand times on the eight hour flight from Germany to the US, but still he hesitates just shy of knocking on the huge front door. He doesn't even know what to expect—Charles has been out of the limelight for ten years. No one has seen him or heard from him in all that time. Will he even remember who Erik is? Is he even _here?_

Before he can linger any longer, Erik raps on the door, loudly enough to hear it echo inside the house. Then he takes a step back, almost holding his breath, to wait.

A long minute passes. Then another. Charles must not be in, if he even still lives here at all. Erik decides to knock one more time, just in case—it's a big house, after all, and would certainly take time to cross.

He's in the midst of knocking when the door is suddenly wrenched open by a crack. "I heard you the first time," an irritable voice snaps with an accent no less faded, "stop trying to knock down my door. What do you—oh my god."

The door swings open wider, and Erik stands face-to-face with Charles. He's a far cry from the Charles on Erik's childhood bedroom wall posters—he's aged, of course, but gone is his fresh-faced youth. He has a scraggly beard, and his unkempt hair hangs limply to his shoulders, brushing against the worn bathrobe he's wearing over a threadbare grey t-shirt that's certainly seen better days. Charles is two years younger than him, but with the bags under his eyes, the Charles in front of him looks ten years older than Erik.

And yet...he's still Charles. Erik imagines shaving the beard off and cutting his hair, and there's the Charles he remembers, still bright and young beneath the haggard look. He quirks a small smile despite himself at the mental image, even though Charles' eyebrow is climbing higher and higher. Charles is still pretty cute, he's just...fluffy right now.

"What the hell is Erik Lehnsherr doing on my front doorstep?" Charles asks incredulously, and then he flushes. "Er..."

Erik grins at him with all his teeth. "So you remember me." He keeps his tone light, but inwardly a sharp thrill runs through him.

"Of course I do," Charles says dismissively, irritable again, "why wouldn't—" He stops, coughing and clearing his throat. "Anyway. What do you want?"

 

 

"Can I come in?" Erik asks politely.

Charles gives him another incredulous look. "I...guess?" He shoots a furtive glance over his shoulder. "Sorry in advance for the mess."

"It's on me for dropping in unexpectedly," Erik assures him, and is rewarded when Charles finally steps back and holds the door open for Erik to come inside.

At first Erik isn't sure what Charles meant by the mess. The grand foyer of the mansion is just as ostentatious as as the outside of the house, without a hint of clutter. But then Charles leads him down a hallway with oak-paneled walls and into a den that looks perhaps like Charles has taken up roost here for the better part of the last ten years; blankets and pillows litter the floor, several trays of half-eaten meals sit around on top of various flat surfaces, the one wastebasket in the corner of the room is overflowing with trash, and several empty liquor bottles form a grim line across the coffee table next to an empty crystal tumbler currently resting on its side.

"Uh, have a seat," Charles says, gesturing vaguely, before he hurries over to scoop up a pile of magazines off one of the tall-backed chairs situated in front of the empty fireplace. "I'll just—can I get you anything to drink?"

Erik picks his way across the floor gingerly, all while trying not to seem like he's taking too much care. It's barely past ten in the morning, but Charles has snatched up the tumbler and has made a beeline for a glass-paned cabinet stocked with more bottles. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Your accent has faded," Charles comments as he pours himself a scotch.

Another unexpected thrill jolts through Erik. Charles remembered his accent—the true reason, actually, behind his reticence in his youth. He’d been embarrassed by how thick it was when he spoke English, and thus rarely spoke at all, which had led to the Ice King nickname. But now that he’s older and wouldn’t be bothered by it in the slightest, it seems his voice has smoothed out.

“I studied abroad for college,” Erik explains. Then, since they’re on the subject, he adds, “Yours hasn’t.”

Charles gives him a thin smirk as he comes back over to the sitting area, kneeing a pillow aside so he can sink down in the chair opposite of Erik. “That’s the good old Xavier spite.” He sets his tumbler down with a sharp click, surveying Erik with his startling blue eyes, still guarded and wary. “So. What brings three-time world champion solo skater Erik Lehnsherr here?”

Despite how this wasn't what he came here to do, Erik puffs up a little with pride. "So you still follow the sport?"

"Yes," Charles says evenly, but there's a different kind of light to his eyes now. "Congratulations, by the way. You deserved the title every time."

He speaks without a trace of bitterness to his voice, but Erik's heart still clenches for a moment in his chest. "Thank you," Erik says when he finds his voice again, "that actually means a lot, coming from you."

Charles snorts. "Me, someone who peaked at age 13 ten years ago and hasn't skated since."

Erik takes a deep breath. "Actually, you've been what's motivated me all these years."

"What?" Charles blinks, evidently thrown off.

"I thought of you as my rival and my friend," Erik says, plowing onward because he may as well get it all out now. "I know we barely knew each other then, but that year you won gold, and I won silver...I was passionate about skating before, but there was something about standing beside you on the podium that pushed me to want to be even better than before. I won gold in the junior division every single year until I made my debut in the senior division, you know."

"I do," Charles says faintly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Even though I wasn't skating against you, I would pretend that I was," Erik continues, hoping he isn't coming off as some kind of deranged fan. Hopefully Charles can hear the stark truth in his words. "Just the thought of competing against you would make me push myself harder, because anything less than perfection was..." His voice runs out for a moment, and he offers Charles a rueful smile. "Undeserving."

Charles doesn't say anything, lifting his crystal tumbler for a drink.

"So to hear you say I deserve my titles..." Erik lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Thank you."

His fingers white on the glass, Charles swallows. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I came here for a reason," Erik says, with a light laugh, "and it wasn't to get validation from you or anything. But the thing is, I don't think you peaked at 13. I think you still have tons of potential, because I know you still skate."

"Fine, every once in awhile in the winter when the pond out back is frozen, yes, I skate," Charles says, rolling his eyes and taking another sip of scotch, "but that doesn't mean anything."

Erik pulls out his phone, pressing his thumb on the home button and tapping on the YouTube icon. "Then what does this mean?"

Frowning, Charles takes the phone when Erik offers it to him. There's a few seconds where the video Erik's pulled up buffers, his phone still adjusting to a foreign service area, but then the familiar sound of Erik's free program music from this past December begins to play, and Charles' eyes go wide and he nearly drops his drink.

"It took me weeks to perfect that program," Erik says quietly as Charles stares white-faced at the screen, watching himself as he skates Erik's exact program that won Erik his third title back in December. Erik's already watched the video to the point of memorizing every second of it, or at least it seems like he's solely responsible for at least half of the 80k hits it's garnered since it was posted just a week ago. "You perform it flawlessly."

"I'm going to kill Raven," Charles says, eyes still glued to the screen, "I didn't know she recorded me at all, and then to upload it to social media—” His voice cuts out, strangled.

"It was tweeted to me by fans about six thousand times," Erik admits, "and the actual tweet of the vid itself has over 17 thousand retweets."

Charles groans, his face fire engine red as he shoves the phone back at Erik. “Glad you liked the show,” he says tersely, lifting his drink again, “but I’m still not sure why you’re here when an email or text could have sufficed.”

Instead of pointing out he doesn’t have Charles’ email or phone number, Erik squares his shoulders. “I came here to your house because I want to be your coach, and I’m going to get you to win this year’s Grand Prix Final.”

Charles spits out his drink, spraying expensive scotch everywhere, the expression on his face almost comical with his level of complete and utter shock. “ _What?!_ ”

 

*

 

In the end, Erik gets his way.

This is not to say Charles doesn’t put up a spectacular fight. This is insane, he argues. No it isn’t and you know it, Erik counters, and then they spend the better part of thirty minutes hotly debating it. Who says I want to skate competitively again, Charles snaps at last, grasping for straws because he knows he’s starting to lose. You’re the one who learned my entire competition program, Erik points out. What about _your_ career, Charles retorts with the air of delivering a final blow, clearly thinking he’s won.

“We’re not talking about my career,” Erik says breezily. “Besides, I’m getting old. I’m going to age out soon.”

“You still have at least one or two more years left in you,” Charles says. Erik tries not to imagine just how closely he’s been following Erik’s career after all, if he’s able to point that out.

“I’ve won the title three times now,” Erik says, because it’s something he’s been thinking about a lot lately, ever since his third win back in December. “Maybe it’s someone else’s turn.”

“You’re mad,” Charles says flatly. He’s cleaned up the mess he’d made when he’d spat out his drink during the course of their argument, but he’s poured himself a new drink too. That, Erik thinks as he watches Charles take a sip, will be one of the first habits they’ll have to kick. “Who in their right mind gives up on their career—their highly successful career, I might add—to coach a nobody who dropped out of the sport ten years ago? Someone you’ve spoken to only once?”

“You aren’t a nobody,” Erik answers firmly, and barrels on before they can spend another small eternity arguing about that too. How can Charles not see how much he’s meant to Erik over the past ten years, even in absence? “I saw the video your sister put up on YouTube and I saw someone who has the same level of passion as I do. You’ve been my motivation to win all this time. I want to return the favor.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Charles says, but there’s a tiny waver of emotion in his voice, and Erik realizes at last the root of the problem: Charles doesn’t think he _deserves_ the chance.

“Charles,” Erik says, holding his gaze steadily. “If our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you do the same?”

There’s a long pause of heavy silence. The antique grandfather clock in one corner of the room ticks loudly, counting out the seconds. A myriad of emotions flicker through Charles’ eyes but he doesn’t look away from Erik, not until he closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he sighs, shoulders dropping as if admitting this is akin to taking off a great weight, “I would.”

“I know,” Erik tells him, because he remembers all the old interviews from when they were young. Charles is unfailingly kind at heart, and the sport needs him. It hadn’t been a hard decision at all for Erik to pack his bags and fly to New York with the crazy idea of coaching Charles to victory. It feels like this is what he’s meant to do. “Now let’s get you back into shape.”

 

*

 

The rest of the offseason passes in a blur. Charles throws himself into the training regimen Erik sets up with an intensity that both does and does not surprise Erik in equal turn—it surprises him because Charles had been so stalwartly against reentering the spotlight, and Erik had assumed it would be an uphill battle to get him to transition between saying he’ll train again to actually starting, and yet it doesn’t surprise him at all because this is Charles, and skating. Charles loves being on the ice, and not even ten years’ distance has changed that.

He curses Erik every chance he gets, though, as he sweats his way through the stretches and squats and crunches and short sprints and the 8 miles they run together, up and down the hilly state road outside the mansion, along with all the rest of the workout program Erik has written. It doesn’t come easy at first, because while Charles has retained his slender build he’s still massively out of shape, but his progress shows in the leaps and bounds by way of his stamina on the ice when they finally start carting themselves to the local rink in town to start crafting Charles’ programs.

Charles is less inclined to kick the drinking habit but Erik is merciless, gathering up all the unfinished bottles of anything even remotely alcoholic after Charles’ first infraction and locking them up (he wants to throw them out, but Charles pitches an unholy fit about some of them being older than both of them) in one of the high cabinets he finds in the kitchen. He writes up a grocery list and a meal plan for Charles to follow too and hands the list off to the cook—the _cook_ , because Charles evidently has hired staff on hand to help with the house—and she makes sure not a single thing is out of line with Erik’s detailed portioning. Charles succumbs to that with slightly better grace, but Erik suspects it’s only because he’s eating it with him too.

Erik has taken up residence in the Xavier mansion because Charles immediately deems it ridiculous that Erik should have to pay for a hotel room when he can just move into one of the too-numerous to count empty bedrooms for free. While Erik is grateful for the generosity, especially given he’s pretty much barged in on Charles’ life anyway, it still takes him awhile to get the hang of where exactly everything is located.

At least in a hotel there are numbers on the doors, Erik thinks as he slowly makes his way down the stuffy hallway, chock full of expensive vases on artfully arranged side tables, huge paintings with thick gilded frames, and even, in one corner, an actual suit of armor. He knows Charles’ bedroom is somewhere down this hall, and he wants to talk to Charles about the music selection for his free program before they head off for their afternoon session at the ice rink, but he isn’t sure which door is right. Was it before or after the original Picasso?

Deciding it won’t hurt if he just starts opening doors to check—they are, after all, the only two ones living in the house right now, so he runs no risk on walking in on someone—Erik twists the handle of the next closest door and pushes it open when he finds it unlocked.

It’s not Charles’ room, but Erik remains paused in the doorway. It _was_ Charles’ room. His childhood bedroom, if Erik were to judge as he flicks on the light without really being aware of what he’s doing, painted a light icy blue color with all of Charles’ old skating trophies and medals displayed on one wall. Erik’s more interested in the other three walls, however, because covering ever inch of them are posters of...him.

Charles kept posters of Erik. Charles kept posters of Erik _up_ even after he left the skating world.

A door further down the hallway opens. “Oh, Erik—” Charles starts in surprise, but then his voice cuts off, presumably when he realizes what doorway Erik is standing in. There are hurried footsteps and then Charles is tugging Erik back out of the room, flicking off the light and slamming the door shut.

“Sorry,” Erik offers, still slightly dazed, “I was looking for you. I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“I understand if you want to go,” Charles says, staring at a spot just over Erik’s left shoulder, his arms tightly folded.

“Go?” Erik says, not comprehending.

“It’s fucking creepy, I know,” Charles continues stiffly. “It looks like I’m some kind of...weirdo. If this makes things too uncomfortable for y—”

“Charles,” Erik says with a small laugh, shaking his head, “no, no.” He pauses, and then he figures he might as well reveal his hand too. “I had a wall of posters dedicated to you, too, when I was growing up. My mother referred to it as The Charles Shrine.”

For a full moment, Charles stares at him. “Really?”

“I swear,” Erik says, pressing his hand over his heart with another laugh. “We can FaceTime her tonight if you want. She’ll confirm.” He gives a rueful grin. “I wasn’t kidding, you know, when I said you were my motivation. You were my idol.”

Cautiously, Charles quirks a smile of his own. “You were mine too. Obviously.”

Erik’s grin widens. “You want me to sign a couple while I’m here?”

“Fuck off,” Charles spits, but it’s good-natured, and then he lets out a laugh of his own. “God. We’re a couple of sad, lonely gits, aren’t we? We didn’t even _know_ each other.”

“I watched all of your interviews,” Erik says shamelessly. It’s a heady feeling, telling this to Charles at last. There was never really an appropriate moment to bring this up before, even though he’s been silently wrestling with the notion that Charles should probably know just how deep Erik’s regard for him was. Now it appears it won’t be a problem at all, which is relieving in more ways Erik can count.

“I watched yours too,” Charles mutters, his cheeks going slightly red.

Delighted, Erik throws back his head with a laugh. “This is perfect. This is fate.”

“This is _pathetic_ ,” Charles says, but he’s grinning again as he claps Erik on the shoulder. Maybe Erik is projecting a little, but he thinks he sees something like relief in Charles’ eyes too. “You know,” he continues slowly, regarding Erik thoughtfully, “we still don’t really _know_ each other beyond the basics.”

Erik nods in agreement. There’s been no time: every waking moment is spent training, on or off the ice, and every conversation revolves around Charles’ progress or areas to improve. They’ve made astounding headway on getting Charles back up to par, but they’ve made little change on the personal front. Erik still doesn’t even know why Charles stopped skating in the first place.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Charles says, blue eyes sparking with an idea, “let’s go out to dinner in town. We can go to the Italian place near the rink and I’ll eat pasta. Plenty of carbs.”

“No wine,” Erik warns him, and Charles makes a face at him. “But that sounds nice. We should talk, anyway. We’re going to be interviewed a lot in the upcoming months once you announce your return officially,” he says carefully. The first qualifying regional blocks are coming up fast, so the news of Charles’ return is going to break eventually. “We need to be on the same page.”

“And this is also the time for you to let me know whether or not you keep a locket with pieces of my hair inside, too,” Charles deadpans, and then bursts out laughing at Erik’s expression. “I couldn’t resist.”

“I’ll tell the cook she doesn’t need to stick around tomorrow evening,” Erik says, wheeling around to mask how his lips are twisting in a smile that probably reveals too much about the way his heart is flipping over several times in his chest, “you meet me out front in ten minutes with a list of five songs you’re considering for your free program.”

 


End file.
